


Tremble

by songlin



Series: Celestial Bodies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Biting, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse, Omega!Sherlock, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They watch the omegas in their class miss a week at a time for their heats, or turn up pregnant, or drop out entirely, and see even the nicest, brightest boys and girls get rude and dumb and aggressive after presenting as alphas. Privately, they wonder what the rush is about.</p><p>John and Sherlock are eighteen years old and still haven't presented as alpha or omega, though they're both sure they know how their cards have been dealt. That is their first mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremble

**Author's Note:**

> Theme: Bedroom Hymns by Florence and the Machine
> 
> Now in [Chinese](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=65155&extra=page%3D1%26amp%3Bfilter%3Dtype%26amp%3Btypeid%3D13) and [Korean](http://94jhlee.blog.me/120199244233)! I understand you may have to contact the translator to see the entirety of the Korean translation.

They were ten when they met—collided, more like—in the schoolyard. For the first and far from last time in their relationship, Sherlock was flat on the pavement.

The large alpha boy who’d knocked him down stalked off without his friend, guffawing. Sherlock gritted his teeth and pulled himself sitting up.

“Sorry about him,” the boy’s friend said, shuffling his feet. “D’you—are you—want to go see the nurse?”

“For an icepack and a lecture about newly presented alphas and their _hormones_ and why little children like me need to let them be?” Sherlock sneered. “No thanks.”

The bully’s friend offered a hand. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. “Look, you’ve got no reason to listen to me—”

“—obviously—”

“—but if you don’t put something cold on that eye you’ll have a helluva shiner to explain to your parents.”

Sherlock took his hand. The boy pulled him to his feet.

“I’m John. John Watson.”

Sherlock gave him a quick once-over, eyes narrowing. “Alpha mother, omega father—divorced, you live with your—dad, yes. You’ve got an older alpha sister and you’re afraid of presenting as an omega, considering your family history of omega males. That’s why you run with Mike Stamford—trying to reassert your dominance.” He tilts his head to the side.

Five minutes ago a similar line of deductions had landed him flat on his arse courtesy of the aforementioned Mike Stamford. Sherlock braces himself, fully expecting a matching black eye.

Instead, John _laughed_. “Erm—wow. That’s, er, a little bit brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“Of course. Absolutely amazing.”

“That’s...not what people normally say.”

“From what I can tell, normally people punch you in the face. I’d not be complaining, myself.” He jerked his head towards the building. “Nurse?"

Sherlock grinned.

\---

They’re a tremendous team in school. Sherlock’s brilliant but can’t be arsed to pay attention and insists on doing all his work the way he sees fit. On the other hand, John’s mind is maybe a bit above average, but he’s a hard worker. Between the two of them they manage good marks in most of their classes.

Year Seven health class is a problem, however.

A lot of secondary schools split the alphas, betas and unpresented students into separate classrooms, but theirs is a more liberal school. They’re still separated by seating, with a quarter or so of the class presented alphas and a quarter presented omegas in the front and the unpresented boys and girls in the back. Sherlock grabs John’s sleeve as they’re directed to their seats.

“By the window, behind the alphas. They’ll block line of sight.”

They take their seat directly behind the cluster of tall alphas and slouch down just as the teacher raps the board.

“Alright, everyone. We’re going to have to set a few ground rules for the purposes of this class...”

John scribbles out a note on a scrap of paper and slips it under Sherlock’s hand. _Harry’s birthday last weekend. Have the extra liquor. Still doing that thing with the rats?_

“...and if you have any questions you’d rather ask anonymously, write it on the piece of paper in front of you. Everyone will turn it in at the end of class.”

Sherlock grins as he uses his piece of paper to write out a reply to John.

_Yes. Do you want to listen?_

“...Most omegas present when they go through their first heat sometime between ages twelve and eighteen, and alphas by exhibiting a _bulbus glandis,_ or knot, when aroused by the presence of omega pheromones. It may be more difficult to...”

John raises his eyebrows, surprised.

_Why? Do you want to?_

_God, no. But I’m not worried about presenting omega. There hasn’t been a omega male Holmes in a hundred years._

John scowls. _Fuck off. I’m fine._

“...first heat is preceded by severe mood swings in which you may experience lethargy, hyperactivity, depression, mania, insomnia, hypersomnia, hyperalgesia, analgesia, increased appetite and increased libido. All of these are normal signs of...”

Sherlock avoids John’s eyes when he passes his next note. _I understand your concern, John._

_You really don’t._

_The societal expectations of omegas are restrictive and not at all helpful for a man with aspirations of a medical career. Or military._

_Thanks for that, I needed a reminder that it’s only a matter of time til I’m sentenced to life in some alpha’s kitchen, barefoot and pregnant._

“...begins with extreme arousal and the production of lubrication. Omegas should find a safe place to pass their heat as soon as it begins. Remember, you’re giving off scent that puts alphas into an uncontrollable...”

_So take the medications._

_Of course I’m taking the medications. Then what, die alone?_

Sherlock hesitates a second. _There’s always other omegas._

“...the second or third day, the heat contractions will begin. They are spaced a few minutes apart until the omega participates in sexual intercourse, at which point they will become closer and more regular until the alpha’s _bulbus glandis_ enlarges enough for the omega’s interior muscles to seal the alpha’s...”

_Are you joking? I don’t fancy folks chucking rocks through my windows._ John knows what happens to queers, and his sister’s got the scars to prove it.

“...after which the alpha will...”

Sherlock darts a glance at the teacher, then chances leaning across the aisle to whisper furtively, “There are others, John—alphas who don’t want to—”

“Bullshit there are—”

_“Holmes! Watson!”_

They spring apart, John looking appropriately penitent and Sherlock smirking.

“Won’t happen again, Professor,” John says, shooting a meaningful look at Sherlock.

\---

They know it is only a matter of time. It’s all well and good until they both present, and John’s heats send Sherlock into a madness that will irreparably destroy their friendship.

What keeps John up is the thought of making Sherlock lose his mind, the chemicals seeping from his body driving his best—his _only_ friend—into uncontainable madness, and most of all: the thought of wanting it, of not caring that he’s reducing the best man he’s ever known into a knot to ride.

What keeps Sherlock up is the thought of John rolling over in bed, well-fucked and exhausted, and looking at him like he’s realized Sherlock’s nature and can’t suppress his horror.

But they have time.

\---

They have a _long_ time.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes become widely known as the only students in the entire sixth form to have _still_ not presented. It’s the source of much amusement to their classmates, though neither of them quite understand why.

They watch the omegas in their class miss a week at a time for their heats, or turn up pregnant, or drop out entirely, and see even the nicest, brightest boys and girls get rude and dumb and aggressive after presenting as alphas. They see teachers who only answer questions from omegas, and teachers who only answer alphas, and the counselors who encourage the alphas to go on to uni and medical school and the army while they advise the omegas to maybe take a few classes in child development. Privately, they wonder what the rush is about, and weather the odd looks and snide remarks.

“My dad’s taking me to the doctor’s,” John says one summer afternoon between Year Twelve and Year Thirteen. They’re lying on a grassy hill by the lake near Sherlock’s home. More accurately, John is lying in the grass, having stripped down to his shorts, and Sherlock is barefoot, naked to the waist and catching fish. “Doesn’t want me graduating unpresented.”

Sherlock snorts. “Please. Mummy is going positively _mad._ She keeps introducing me to her friends’ omega children in the hopes of inducing it in me.”

“Ravish one in the parlor for the hell of it. I’d pay to see her face.”

Sherlock grins. He tosses his makeshift fishing pole aside, flops down onto the ground beside John and wriggles over so he’s lying mostly on top of him.

“Off,” John says, with no real feeling in it. “You smell like fish and mud.”

It’s a lie. Sherlock smells pretty bloody amazing, as a matter of fact, but that’s not the sort of thing you say to your best mate. It does not occur to John that best mates don’t generally lie on top of each other half-naked, either.

“Mycroft says if I keep you it’ll be worse when I present,” Sherlock says. “That it’ll ruin us.”

John’s face twists.

“I don’t want to ruin us.”

John smiles ruefully and ruffles Sherlock’s hair. “Yeah.”

Sherlock hugs him tightly and doesn’t let him up until John throws him off and into the lake.

\---

The lake was the start.

Sherlock had dropped his fishing pole and laid down with John because he _needed_ to, because it felt like a thing that _had_ to happen. After John goes home Sherlock treks back inside, shirt and shoes in hand. He feels odd, almost like he’s getting sick. He's hot, which he attributes to the weather, and there’s an uneasy feeling low in his stomach that he blames on the fact that he’s practically too hungry to _stand_.

Still half-dressed and sopping, he makes himself a sandwich, and then another, and then a third. He takes a tin of biscuits upstairs into the bath with him in case he gets hungry again. He eats his way through half the tin before he gets out of the tub, and then realizes he could nearly fall asleep standing up. He falls into bed without putting on his pyjamas.

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, inexplicably hard. Well, he is eighteen. It happens. He gropes for the tissues on his bedside table, wanks as quickly as he can, and rolls over.

Five minutes later, he realizes he must’ve missed the tissue, because he’s sleeping dead center in one hell of a wet spot. On top of that, he’s already hard again. Grumbling, he rolls out of bed, switches on the light, and—

Oh.

_Oh._

Hell.

\---

John’s first assumption when Sherlock didn’t answer his calls was that he’d finally infuriated someone enough to actually get himself killed.

He quickly tells himself that’s nonsense. It’s far more likely he got himself arrested, or sectioned, or got his own damn self killed with his bloody experiments. When he mentions it to his dad, he just shrugs.

“Maybe he presented and he’s off with someone,” he says with an obvious wink.

John rolls his eyes and tries to call again.

\---

When his mother catches him coming out of his third cold shower of the morning, Sherlock knows he’s done for. She looks shocked for a moment, but composes herself quickly.

“Lie down, Sherlock, love,” she says, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his forehead. “You poor thing, you must be miserable. I’ll bring you something.”

He _is_ miserable. He’s hot and faint and vaguely sick and wants nothing more than to lie down someplace quiet and dark for a very long time. He stumbles back into bed, where he curls into a tight ball and clenches his fists and teeth until his mother reappears with a cold glass full of something that tastes chalky and sweet.

“There you are, love,” she says, her hand cool and soothing on his damp brow.

Sherlock hums and closes his eyes.

He sleeps fitfully, waking often for brief, hazy spells. He’s burning so hot he thinks he must be dying. No one could safely run a temperature this high...can they? He can’t remember. The weight of his pyjamas sticking to his skin becomes unbearable, despite the thinness of the fabric, so he strips them off and tosses them away. His chest feels tight and there’s a dull ache pulsing low in his guts. There’s no comfortable position to sleep in. No matter how Sherlock lies, he can’t keep the dampness from trickling down his thighs, soaking the sheets and exacerbating the need to _writhe_ and _thrash_ and be filled with something, _anything_.

“Please,” he whines into the darkness to no one at all. “Make it stop, _please.”_

\---

By the second day without contact from Sherlock, John cannot shake the feeling that something is _wrong_. He’s not sure what or why, but he can feel that he needs to be with Sherlock right now, that Sherlock needs him.

Thankfully, they’ve measures in place.

Sherlock’s bedroom is on the second floor. They rigged the latch to allow it to be opened from the outside years ago during a brief period when they were _technically_ forbidden to see each other. The gardener’s shed is unlocked, so all John has to do is fetch the ladder, take a seat on the windowsill, and climb inside.

\---

Something is knocking at the window.

Sherlock rolls over and rubs his eyes. There is a John climbing into his room.

“My God, are you sick?” he’s saying. “You’re _never—_ where are your clothes?” He sits down on the floor by the bed and puts the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead.

There is something about this that is not... _usual,_ but Sherlock can’t...quite...

“Jesus, you’re burning up.” He takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as he does.

“Not sick,” Sherlock says evenly. His voice is thick and not at all like it normally sounds. He swallows the humiliation. Something pulses low in his guts.

“Then why are—oh!” John reddens, snatches his hand back and looks away with a nervous laugh.

Sherlock wishes he hadn’t. He groans and throws an arm over his face. “What day is it?”

“Er, Wednesday. It’s Wednesday afternoon.”

_“Hell._ It was Tuesday.”

“What, were you planning on sleeping through your entire—the whole thing?”

“Yes. Preferably.”

John bites his lip. “So it’s...bad?”

_“Yes.”_

“What’s it...what does it...does it hurt?”

The unspoken question is,  _“what am I in for?”_

Sherlock grimaces. “‘Hurt’ isn’t the proper term.”

One of John’s hands has found its way onto Sherlock’s. He likes the weight of it. It’s pleasant. Anchoring.

There’s a twinge in his stomach that blossoms, his muscles clenching against his will. He winces and curls his legs up to his stomach. It relieves the urgent pressure a little, but not nearly enough.

John squeezes his hand. “Are you okay?”

_No._ Sherlock nods. His insides are throbbing. The paroxysms of full heat will be starting up in earnest soon. He doesn’t want John to see him like that, helpless, wracked with need—

Only—he _does_.

He wants it more than anything.  


“I should go,” John says.

He doesn’t move.

Sherlock tugs at his hand.

“No. Don’t.”

John doesn’t.

Instead, he climbs up into Sherlock’s bed, the way he’s done a thousand times, and pulls the sheets over him.

Sherlock is very aware of the points of contact between them: hands, knees, foreheads. There’s a high note emerging in the cloud of smells permeating the room. It’s not the dark, rich perfume of Sherlock’s heat, but brighter, sharper. Sherlock wants to bathe in it, cover his skin with that fantastic scent so that he can have it absolutely _forever_.

Logically, it has to be John. He’s the only new thing to enter the room, and it didn’t smell half so good before. Sherlock tests this theory by nuzzling into John’s neck and inhaling.

John gasps. Sherlock sighs with relief. “Brilliant.”

“Sherlock—” John starts, but cuts off with a hiss when Sherlock licks a stripe up over his jugular.

“You taste the same,” Sherlock says in amazement. “As you smell.”

He presses his mouth to the side of John’s neck, laving the skin with his tongue. John’s gone breathless and panting. His hands lock tight around Sherlock’s upper arms when Sherlock’s hands start to roam up his torso.

“What—what are you—”

“Want to taste,” Sherlock says, and nips at John’s collarbone because it smells _that edible._

A moment later, he shudders for half a second, then wraps the full length of his limbs around John and pants out uneven breaths as another spasm tears through him. He _needs,_ and it has to be John, it always has—

He doesn’t realize he’s saying this aloud until John buries his face in Sherlock’s hair and groans. “Christ, Sherlock I—I don’t know if—I haven’t—I can’t— _oh, God, yes, don’t stop!”_

Sherlock, in three swift movements, has undone John’s trousers and gotten his hand inside them. He strokes John’s cock through his thin shorts and shivers at the scent coming off in clouds.

“Oh _God,”_ John chokes out.

Sherlock bites at John’s neck again. “Please,” he says, high and urgent, and tugs at the bottom of John’s t-shirt.

John’s hands squeeze Sherlock’s arms again. He grimaces.

Sherlock winces and then arches and _moans,_ because there’s another spasm like a fucking _seizure_ in his guts, and that seems to be as much as John can take.

John rolls Sherlock over onto his stomach. He sighs happily and rubs his face against the pillows, looking for some kind of friction, _anything_ at this point. John would provide, but he’s busy stripping off his shirt and trousers and shorts as fast as he physically can.

Sherlock groans and shudders through a spasm. His hips move in slow circles in the air. “John...”

“I’m coming, I’m _coming.”_

He crowds in close again and kisses the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hand. One’s to the side of Sherlock, because he’s got to brace himself somehow, but the other’s roaming around Sherlock’s ribs and nipples and arse and stomach and thighs, absolutely _everywhere_ but where Sherlock needs it.

_“John—”_

“I know, I’ve just got to—”

The hand at Sherlock’s arse slips back, down, between his legs, fingers swiping moisture from the backs of his thighs, and it _cannot possibly_ be normal for anyone to have this much difficulty breathing.

Completely by chance, John’s tentative finger slips in just as Sherlock’s insides contract and tighten again. Sherlock cries out.

“Did I hurt—”

“No,” Sherlock pants.“No, do it again, _please—”_

So John does it again, pulls his finger all the way out and then tentatively pushes it back in, and Sherlock just _keens_.

“More. Come on, John, _more.”_

John bites at the back of Sherlock’s neck, and when he thrusts in again with two fingers, Sherlock arches and half shouts.

“What are you doing to me?” John says. _“God,_ what are you _doing? Fuck,_ Sherlock. Oh, _fuck.”_

Sherlock reaches back and grabs at his hip. “Now, John. _Now.”_

“Jesus Christ,” John says harshly.

He pulls out his fingers, runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back and squeezes his arse. Sherlock groans. His body’s getting more reactive now, the spasms provoked rather than random.

“Need you,” he says, tipping his head back and pushing his hair under John’s chin. “Can you feel it? I’m aching for you, John. My body wants you inside of it.”

“Sherlock,” John gasps. “Oh my God, Sherlock, I have—my—my knot—it’s—”

_“Yes_.” He knew, on some level he’d always known, with the smell and his responses, but to _hear_ it, know for certain that John could give what Sherlock needed to receive— “Come on, John.”

Large, blunt flesh pressing at his arse—

_“John,”_ Sherlock whines, and shifts back on his knees, just an inch or two, lifts his tailbone. The slick head of John’s cock nudges in.

_“Jesus.”_

John’s breathing is harsh and broken. Sherlock tries to pant out the tension, but it’s too much, the sensation, _everywhere—_

_“JOHN!”_

The word’s barely out before John pushes forward with a grunt, and just like that, he’s inside. All of him, except for the bulge of his knot. Sherlock can feel it against him, just against his arsehole.

He shudders and groans. “John—John, I’m—”

“I can feel it,” John pants.

Sherlock’s insides convulse, and John pulls half out and shoves back in as if he can’t control it. Sherlock can’t _speak_ for the pleasure. At this point, he probably couldn’t control his body if he _tried_.

“God, Sherlock,” John rasps. “I— _God—_ tight, you’re so tight, so wet, _so_ _good—”_

His swelling knot pushes into John's tight hole and drags out again. Sherlock feels his body clenching at it, reaching, releasing, and groans with frustration.

“You _want_ it,” John says, with genuine amazement. _“God,_ but you want it. You want my—my knot—”

“Yes,” Sherlock cries. _“Yes!”_

Sherlock’s entire body is dilating and contracting with every one of John’s thrusts. He’s dripping, leaking down his thighs and John’s. He can’t even think about touching himself. It would be too much.

His face is flushed dark and he’s grabbing at the headboard, knuckles white around the wood. It’s—unexpected, but perfect. _God,_ it couldn’t be better, the way they’ve ended up.

John’s breath is going shaky. “Are you—can you—”

Sherlock’s only able to grasp the vaguest idea of what John means, but whatever it is— “Yes. Yes, John, _yes!”_

John whines, high and desperate, pulls out slowly, and Sherlock just _sobs—_

John thrusts in all the way, forcing his knot past the resistance, and Sherlock feels his orgasm rising in him like a fucking _cyclone,_ just before he tightens and his back bows so deeply it hurts and John bites down _hard_ on the back of his neck—

“Coming” is tragically insufficient to describe what happens the first time an omega comes in their heat, especially their first. It's _nothing_ like any orgasm Sherlock’s ever had. He almost shouts for John to stop, stop, it’s too much, but then his nerves are sparking and his spine is stiffening and his lungs are full of air but it’s not enough because he’s shouting, practically _howling,_ and coming and coming and _coming_.

It feels like forever before he relaxes at all, and feels John, locked inside of him, stroking up and down his back and sides and murmuring soothing things. He nudges in a little further, and Sherlock shivers and comes again. It’s smaller this time, just a few throbbing pulses, and then he’s going limp into his pillows, arse in the air.

“Still coming,” John gasps, “God, I’m _still coming.”_

He cups Sherlock’s face and rubs his thumb over his cheekbone. Sherlock, exhausted, has just enough energy to turn his head to the side and catch John’s thumb in his teeth. John groans.

“Bloody— _perfect.”_

Sherlock lies there gulping in air, drowsy and limp, for some time—he's no idea how long—while John strokes soothing hands up and down his sides and groans into his neck. It feels...nice. Unexpected. Comfortable. Sherlock hums in contentment and reaches back to squeeze John's thigh. John sighs, pulls Sherlock closer, and shudders a little. There's another hot, wet burst inside of him. He drags in a long, silent breath through his mouth and rocks back.

At last, John's knot goes down and Sherlock's body unclenches. John slides out with a wet _pop_ and flops down next to Sherlock.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

Sherlock laughs, breathless and hoarse.

“So, I’m not an omega.”

Sherlock snorts.

John smiles.

Sherlock smiles.

With their faces side to side, it’s much easier to scoot closer and press a shy kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock hums into John’s mouth, a low, pleased sound.

He doesn’t expect to enjoy kissing so much, but it’s better than he expected. While they’re kissing, he’s free to feel the topology of John’s skin, the thick cords of muscle from his years playing rugby and running with Sherlock, the appendix scar on his stomach, the clearly defined lines of his iliac crest.

Sherlock licks his lips experimentally when they pull apart. It doesn’t taste the same as John’s neck, but it’s similar. Good.

“I don’t think we’ve ruined us,” John says.

Sherlock shakes his head and laughs.


End file.
